


Five Things That Never Happened to The New Avengers...and One That Did

by Timeless A-Peel (timelessapeel)



Category: New Avengers (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Gen, Humor, Romance, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-02
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-28 18:51:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timelessapeel/pseuds/Timeless%20A-Peel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Exactly what it says on the tin. A series of AU vignettes capped by one "canonical" story, all featuring our favourite trio. Character-focussed. On the sad/bittersweet side. Mind the rating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Strangers

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own The New Avengers, nor the characters of John Steed, Mike Gambit, Purdey, and Thomas McKay. They belong to The Avengers (Film and TV) Enterprises. This story is written for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> Author's Note: A bit of an experiment, I got the idea for this from a similar series of vignettes written for Cathy Gale a few years back, and thought I'd try it for TNA. It consists of a number of short stories, each set in a different alternate universe where events have taken place outside the established timeline. It'll be capped off by one "canonical," non-AU story. The brilliant thing about it is that it allowed me to play with lots of little ideas I've had over the years, but which I didn't have an inclination to develop a whole plot around. So I got to play in a lot of different AU universes. I'll be posting a new one every few days. Hopefully you'll enjoy the results.
> 
> I'll just add that a lot of these turned out to be at the sadder/bittersweet end of the spectrum. I've no idea why, but there it is. Just a warning.
> 
>  
> 
> \--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They sat, the three of them, around the unadorned, black topped table that was standard in all Ministry interrogation rooms. Though they were technically there to be debriefed, Gambit suspected McKay's questioning would be no less intense.

They sat in silence, their usual easy banter not forthcoming after so long apart. Only quiet breathing, and the squeak of the cheap chairs when someone moved, punctuated the quiet.

For Gambit, it felt like a lifetime since he'd been able to look at both his colleagues at once. And yet the memory of the charred, black hole in the side of the building where his flat used to be was so vivid, it might have happened yesterday. So was the frantic drive to Purdey's, only to find her standing stock still on the pavement, watching the firemen douse the last of the flames that flickered at the bottom of the 21 steps. From there, it hadn't taken a great leap of imagination to guess that events had repeated themselves at the stud farm, and by the time they reconvened in McKay's office, they all knew, before the lab boys produced their report, that there was a vendetta against them, and only their long, leisurely evening meal at one of their favourite restaurants had saved them. The note sent to the Ministry a few hours later told them nothing about who their attacker was—though the list of suspects was long—but made it crystal clear that where one attack failed, another would follow, and another, until all three of them became the latest occupants of Dr. James Kendricks' morgue.

McKay did the best he could, offered them protection from Ministry security, to pull the best agents off their assignments and have them investigate. The three of them barely needed to convene to arrive at an alternative. They knew security wouldn't save them. Someone, somewhere would find a way to get around it, eventually, especially if there was a leak. They also knew no one was better equipped to find their would-be murderer than they were. That meant their only option was to...disappear.

Arrangements were made for drop boxes. Overnight bags were packed with essentials, and enough money to carry them through the first month, if they were mean enough. Then the long drive in the dark, in the non-descript car, to the quiet alley, and the good-byes. Splitting up seemed the sensible thing to do, as opposed to presenting one big target for persons unknown. Gambit had plenty of experience living on the fringes of society, and he knew Steed was more than capable of taking care of himself, but he worried after Purdey, well-aware that, in the less-civilised corners of the world, being a woman was more of a liability than an asset. He implied as much, but she'd simply flashed that classic, carefree Purdey grin, and assured him that she was much less innocent than she let on, and was more than capable of taking care of herself. That smile would carry him through many a dark night, lying awake, waiting for the knives to come out.

He wouldn't see her again for another six weeks.

They met at irregular intervals, only ever two at a time, so that even if they were caught, the third would live to fight another day. They formed a little chain: Steed would meet Gambit, Gambit would meet Purdey, Purdey would meet Steed, and so on. Each time passing on anything they had discovered in the interim, each time hoping this meeting would be the last, that they would be able to come out of hiding and resume their lives. Each time fearing that the other person would never arrive, and all that would imply. To a certain degree they always lived this way, with the sense that they should check over their shoulders, and the knowledge that each day could be their last. But it was never this extreme, this intense, for so long. No one knew how long it would take to unmask their opponents, but Gambit doubted that any of them had expected it to drag on for six months.

Six months. Even now, with it all over, it seemed impossible, an absolute age. A whole half a year, living in secret, following leads, checking and filling drop boxes, wondering where Purdey and Steed were, what they were doing, if they were still alive. On top of it all, they had to survive. The money McKay had provided had only stretched so far—Gambit doubted even their department head had expected his best agents to go underground for so long. Bank accounts and safety deposit boxes were unsafe, off-limits. Gambit took a job at the docks, where his rocking gait and naval experience would help him blend in with the host of others doing the grunt work of loading and unloading ships. He bunked aboardship with a dozen others, and walked the fine line between overly friendly and suspiciously withdrawn. He cut his hair to a painfully short length his old captain would have approved of, let his accent deteriorate to the cockney of his youth, quit shaving regularly, and at night prayed it would be enough to let him pass in a crowd, all the while sleeping with a knife under his pillow, just in case the latest lodger was more than he seemed.

He glanced across the table at Purdey, who was distractedly examining her brightly-painted pink fingernails. She, too, had cut her hair, even though her bob hadn't provided much to work with. It was a pixie cut, and even though he found her attractive no matter what she did to herself, he didn't think it flattered her. But it helped. She'd dyed it, too—the first time he met her, it was black. Now it was a mousey brown, which he hadn't seen before. She'd taken to wearing too much make-up as well, in an attempt to alter or disguise her features. Gambit had a barely controllable urge to scrub the layers off and see the real girl again, but knew she'd do it herself in short order. The one feature she couldn't disguise were her eyes-big, bright pools peering out from beneath the mask. They were alive with anxiety, wide and perpetually moving, scanning her surroundings every few seconds. He recognised the hunted look from his own visage, wondered if she slept armed, too. Probably. More worrisome was the thinness of her frame. Purdey had always been slim, but whatever reserves she'd had had been whittled away, and the result was unsettling. Even Purdey's notoriously insatiable appetite had been quelled by their ordeal. He made a mental note to take her out for dinner just as soon as they were cleaned up.

He didn't know what Purdey had been doing to survive all this time, hadn't asked because they'd thought it better they didn't know, just in case they were caught. He wasn't certain he wanted to know, either, though he suspected most of his fears were unfounded. Purdey may not have spent as much time in society's grittier corners as he had, but she was tough as nails and knew how to handle herself, and giving her the impression he thought otherwise would get him a tongue-lashing he wouldn't forget.

Purdey glanced his way, and Gambit averted his eyes before she caught him staring at her. He turned his gaze to Steed. The senior agent was staring thoughtfully into the middle distance, hands resting on the tabletop, fingers laced. The wrinkled mac he wore somehow draped over his broad shoulders just as beautifully as the most expensive topcoat from Saville Row, and Gambit would have been surprised at how comfortable he looked in it had he not made a hobby of trawling through Steed's old case files. It was from those that Gambit had learned about Steed's earliest days as a spy, scrubbing away at the lower echelons of society, chain-smoking in seedy clubs, having shady meetings in alleyways with unscrupulous characters, and manipulating unwitting nightclub singers to do his dirty work for him. It was grittier, less sophisticated work, but it also revealed the true John Steed, at his most basic, ruthless, driven level. All the polish and refinement that had glossed over the rough edges was mostly just that—gloss—and there was something strangely comforting about knowing that Steed, if he had to, could revert back to his previous existence, that the clothes, and cars, and champagne were perks, not crutches. It was what made him unbribable, why the enemy had tried and failed to turn him to the other side. Because John Steed job lived to serve his country, and the people in it, and he did so with a drive that was almost frightening, and would have continued to do so even if he'd never ascended the Ministry ranks, even if he'd occupied that mac for the whole of the past seventeen years.

Gambit didn't know what Steed had done to survive, either. Somehow, he doubted Steed had been working—knowing him, he probably had caches of money, passports, and heaven knew what else stashed all over the country that he could tap into if the need arose. But even if he knew how to live, and had funds to back him up, that didn't mean that their ordeal had left him unaffected. He had creases in his face that were as deep as the cracks in Gambit's weather-beaten leather jacket, and the well-fitting mac only served to emphasise his noticeably thinner frame. He'd grayed his hair, or let it go gray, Gambit didn't know which, realising that he'd never thought to question whether the jet black waves were art or nature. Maybe the past six months had actually grayed him. Heaven knew the stress had been intense enough. There was no sign of the bowler or brolly, either, both ditched for deep cover, and Gambit wondered if he felt naked without them.

Steed shifted, as though he meant to speak, and Gambit snapped from his thoughts with a jolt. Purdey glanced up at them expectantly, but if Steed had meant to say something, the words died on his lips, and the blip of activity gave way once more to an uncomfortable silence. Gambit's mouth twisted in frustration. They'd forgotten how to have a real conversation, that was the problem. They'd become too used to having frantic, whispered exchanges in dingy flats and grotty alleys, about leads, and dark shadows, and suspicious faces. Pleasantries were a luxury they couldn't afford, as was a sense of humour. Now that the pressure was off, and they could interact freely, they didn't know how. Heaven knew how long it would be before their old group dynamic would reassert itself.

Steed sighed.

Gambit crossed his arms.

Purdey examined her nails.

Steed sucked his teeth

Gambit looked at Purdey.

Purdey said, "You look terrible with short hair."

From anyone else, it would be the most hurtful comment one could make after all they'd gone through. From Purdey, it was classic. The affectionate put-down repurposed as an icebreaker. Gambit felt his mouth quirk up at the sides in spite of himself. To his left, he could hear Steed's chuckle, which was soon joined by Purdey's own, and soon all three had dissolved in full-blown, borderline-hysterical, laughter, as all the fear, tension, stress, and uncertainty flowed out of the three agents, decompression writ large as it echoed down the hall. When McKay arrived for the debriefing, it took a full ten minutes to settle them down again. It was then that Gambit knew they were going to be just fine.


	2. Never Too Late

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own The New Avengers, nor the characters of John Steed, Mike Gambit, Purdey, and Thomas McKay. They belong to The Avengers (Film and TV) Enterprises. This story is written for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> Author's Note: In 1994, Gareth Hunt and Joanna Lumley did publicity for the first release of The New Avengers on home video. In the process, it came to light that Gareth and Joanna were in talks with TNA showrunner and producer Brian Clemens to reprise their roles as Purdey and Gambit in a new series. While a script was written, and both actors were willing to participate, the series (sadly) never materialised, and the script has never surfaced. I couldn't help but wonder what that series would have been like. Would the relationships between the characters have changed? What would have happened in the 17-year interim? This is one take on what might have been. With thanks to Dandy Forsdyke, whose musings on the series that never was helped inspire this vignette.
> 
>  
> 
> \--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The woman pushed open the doors to the Ministry's reception area tentatively. It felt strange to be back here, after so many years. Twelve years, to be exact, and yet despite the calendar reading 1994, little had changed. The carpet had probably been redone, the staff retired and replaced with the next generation. But at the end of the day an office was an office, a corridor was a corridor, and the Ministry was the Ministry. No matter how many bureaucratic reshufflings there were, how many new sub-sections created, there would always be an essential sameness about it. She supposed the department needed it. The world it investigated was changeable enough without inviting it inside. She stepped over the threshold, heard the carpet muffle her footsteps, and took a deep breath, trying to work out her next move. She supposed the intelligent thing to do would be to go to reception, but they were supposed to be expecting her, and she did have a visitor's pass, so maybe that was silly. Then again, she didn't know the procedure anymore, and the last thing she needed was to draw attention to herself by making a mistake the most junior of agents wouldn't. So the reception desk it was. She squared her shoulders and started toward it, but a voice stopped her in her tracks.

"I don't think you need bother, my dear. I'm quite certain you're not planning on infiltrating the archives."

The woman felt the corners of her mouth tug upwards in a grin, and she whirled round to face the speaker. "Steed!"

"Purdey, my dear," the senior agent greeted as Purdey threw her arms around his neck in a warm embrace. "How wonderful to see you again. I wasn't certain you'd come."

"I could hardly refuse, could I?" Purdey teased as she pulled back to meet his eyes. "Not when John Steed, Head of the Ministry, summoned me."

Steed furrowed his brow. "It was hardly a summons. More of a friendly invitation. But I'm happy to see you all the same. It's an old file, but it's been reopened, and it was one of ours, so I'm afraid we're still responsible."

"No rest for the wicked," Purdey quipped, her smile fond. "I know. It's fine. Really it is." She clasped his hand in both of hers. "Besides, it's an excuse to see you again. You're looking very distinguished."

Steed laughed. "I've been reliably informed that that compliment is reserved for people over the age of 65, but I shall take what I'm offered."

"Nonsense," Purdey dismissed. "It's an adjective suitable for all ages, and you've always fit it to a T."

"I thank you, dear lady, who, might I add, is looking as lovely as ever." He took her hand and kissed it. "I'm reminded as to why you were such a welcome sight around the office."

Purdey arched a well-tended eyebrow. "Steed, I'm disappointed. You'll be saying something about my legs next, and we all know whose remit those kinds of comments were."

Steed caught a glimpse of something over her shoulder, and smiled. "If I recall correctly, it was his, but I'm sure he won't mind a touch of plagiarism."

Purdey froze, and Steed smiled knowingly. He leaned in close to her ear, and added. "I know that this will probably fall under your definition of 'corny,' but...he's behind you."

"I'd worked that much out on my own," Purdey murmured, searching Steed's face for a hint about what to do next. "What should I do?"

"Turning around would be a start," Steed advised, sliding his hand from her suddenly vicelike grip. "I'll catch up with you later, shall I?"

"Steed!" Purdey hissed, but he was beating a retreat that was entirely too speedy for a 72-year-old, leaving her to her fate. She sighed and shook her head. Some things never changed. She squared her shoulders for the second time in as many minutes, and put on her most impassive face before turning round to face the man she knew was behind her.

"Hello, Purdey."

"Gambit..." She stood there, just looking at him, not quite sure what to do, and yet marvelling at how little he'd changed. Still tall, still slim, still with those ridiculous eyebrows, and that devil-may-care glint in his eye. Still looking at her. Like that.

He took his hands out of his pockets and started toward her, and she snapped out of her trance long enough to realise that the polite thing to do was meet him halfway. She hadn't done that often, all those years ago. She knew she ought to have done it more.

They met, and there was an awkward moment as they tried to work out just what they were meant to do. They settled on a hug, a friendly embrace of familiar smells and carefully placed hands. When she pulled back, Purdey could see the telltale traces of the intervening years, the ones distance had hidden before. The creases, the lines...

"You've got grey," she murmured, eyes fixed on his hair, then flushed when she realised she'd said it out loud. But Gambit just grinned, inclined his head in gracious acknowledgement of time's triumphs.

"I got old," he quipped, with just a touch of ruefulness.

"No," Purdey disagreed, quite firmly. "Not old. Mature, maybe, though how that could possibly have happened is beyond me. But not old." She meant it, too—there was something about the way he held himself, the set of his jaw. Gambit had never been lacking in confidence, but the touch of self-consciousness that had always existed in his days in Steed's shadow, in the days of being conscious of his working class background, had faded away. "And anyway, if anyone's gotten old, it's me. The world isn't kind to women over forty."

"The world is wrong most of the damned time," Gambit said with feeling. "You haven't changed a bit, Purdey-girl. Not one bit."

She flushed for the second time in as many moments, and ducked her head. Gambit had never been able to make her blush quite this easily, not that she remembered. Some things clearly had changed. "Flatterer," she managed.

"Never." He remembered something else, rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. "Listen, before I forget. I'm sorry. About your husband. Really I am."

Purdey tried not to think about the wedding band she still wore. "I know you are," she replied. "It's not your fault. Not anyone's. It happened, I've accepted it, but my life isn't over. I'll find my way somehow." There was one sore spot, though, that she couldn't help but air. "But I could have used you at the funeral."

He averted his eyes. "I was busy. There were things I couldn't get out of."

Purdey arched a sceptical eyebrow. "The same kinds of things that made you miss my wedding? I never quite forgave you for that, you know."

He sighed, and looked heavenward before returning his eyes to hers. "Never was any good with weddings. Girl—you—in the dress. Lots of people crying. Family milling about. And entirely too much drink helping it all along." He paused when she laughed, then added, quite seriously. "And anyway, I didn't think I was wanted."

Purdey shook her head in mild recrimination. "Silly, deluded man."

He snorted. "Fine. I didn't think it was right. For me to be there, when you were...someone else's."

Purdey pulled a face. "I believe the last time I checked, I was my own."

"You know what I mean."

"Yes." She bit her lip. "I suppose it wasn't very fair of me, to expect that, considering, well, you and me."

"There never was a you and me, Purdey-girl," Gambit corrected, with just a touch of bitterness. "Just you. And me. And what you did was none of my business. We made our choices. You wanted to get out, wanted to live a normal life. Heaven knows you earned it. I didn't have any right to stand in your way."

"And you wanted to climb the ladder, contribute, make a difference. Or do penance for your first thirty years on the planet. I've never worked out which." She smiled at the familiar expression that she had come to know as 'Thanks ever so.' "Steed's told me everything, about you running your own teams, the modifications you've made to the training program, the modernisation of the technology department. Plenty of influence. After the Minister and Steed, you're the top dog."

Gambit scowled, and for a moment somehow managed to look the part of sullen teenager. "When you say it like that, it makes me sound like an office-bound prig. I'll have you know I still go out in the field."

"I'm sure you do, Mike Gambit. I'd be very disappointed if you didn't hold two fingers up to the establishment at least once a month." She laughed at his expression, reached out automatically to tug at his tie, just to let him know she was teasing, but the second she touched the cloth, she froze. The easy familiarity of the gesture belied all the times she'd done it in the past—in relief, in grief, to show affection. Her eyes met his, to see if he'd noticed. Of course he had. It was Gambit, after all. Beneath her fingers, she could feel the shallowness of his breathing, the steady beat of his heart.

"Just like old times?" he tried, in an attempt to dissipate the tension, and Purdey shook her head.

"No, I don't think so," she said firmly. "And do you know something? I think I'd rather it wasn't. It's been 12 years, Mike. We're not the same people. This shouldn't be the same relationship." She saw the pang in his eyes, and added, "It should be better." She left his tie and reached up to touch his temple, right where the telltale streak of grey lay against a background that was still jet black. She felt the skin tighten beneath her fingers as he shut his eyes.

"Purdey..."

"One of these days, Mike Gambit," she said quietly, "has been a very, very long time coming, and I think we ought not to drag it out much longer."

He opened his eyes again, and looked at her with a sense of wonder. "Do you mean it?"

She nodded, withdrew her fingers, before they both broke down, right here in the middle of the Ministry foyer. That would really give the junior agents something to talk about. "Business first," she said briskly. "Then...we'll see where things go."

He smiled slightly, nodded back in agreement, cleared his throat. "Right. Okay. Let's, uh, get on with it then."

She smirked at his eagerness, took the arm he offered, and followed him off down the corridor. "Oh, and by the way, I think you look wonderful grey."

"Purdey-girl, I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."


	3. Leverage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own The New Avengers, nor the characters of John Steed, Mike Gambit, Purdey, and Thomas McKay. They belong to The Avengers (Film and TV) Enterprises. This story is written for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> Author's Note: The inspiration behind this one was a particular scene in the second episode of the recent Torchwood: Miracle Day. The raw emotion of the characters was unbelievably powerful, and I couldn't help but wonder how Steed, Purdey, and Gambit would cope with a similar situation. And so begins vignette number three...
> 
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"I'm sorry, John," McKay said sadly, leaning back in his desk chair. "The evidence is very persuasive. Photos, telephone conversations, video recordings, deposits to your bank accounts..." He levelled his gaze at his old friend, and added pointedly, "The packed suitcases at your flats..."

"All very circumstantial," Steed replied, returning the gaze, just as levelly. "And very easy to arrange."

"It's also been done before," Gambit added, returning a telephone transcript to the stack of pages proving their 'guilt'. "A stitch-up. Steed must have been a victim of it a dozen times. Someone fixes it so you look like a traitor, has your own side take care of you, and department morale goes down the tubes as a bonus. Why not do the same to a whole team? They're aiming to take three out for the price of one."

"Not to mention," Purdey finished, looking up from the photos she was examining, "the improbability factor. One loyal agent turning is one thing, but three? I know we're close, but you must admit the idea of all of us becoming disillusioned, at the same time, is stretching the idea too far."

McKay leaned forward, lacing his fingers on his desk. "All valid points, and believe me when I say I've thought of them myself. But the fact is that the evidence is overwhelming, we've found no reason to believe that it's been falsified, and as to how it is you all decided to turn at the same time, well, perhaps it was only one of you who was got at, and convinced the other two. Or maybe one of you became involved under duress. Or perhaps you've simply been in deep cover for years, and we're only seeing the signs now—"

"Strange that we'd start dropping the ball now, isn't it, Tommy?" Steed pointed out. "If we're as remarkable as you seem to think we are, we ought to know better than to let ourselves be caught out by something as amateur as a photograph or a wire tap."

"No one's perfect, John," McKay retorted. "Even you. And if the suitcases are any indication, you weren't planning on being around for much longer, so perhaps you relaxed your standards."

Gambit snorted. "You used to be in the field, McKay. You know as well as I do that that doesn't make sense. The whole thing stinks of a set-up."

"It might," McKay allowed, "but it needs to be investigated all the same."

"Then let us investigate," Purdey pushed, blue eyes flashing. "If anyone can work out who is behind this, it's us."

McKay shook his head. "No."

"But we could work in conjunction with a team. That way you could keep an eye on us—" Purdey protested.

"I'm sorry, Purdey, but that's the final word on the matter. It's not even my decision to take. The Minister's taken a personal interest. Given the breadth and depth of the evidence, he's ordered your immediate arrest and detention until more evidence is gathered, and a final decision can be made."

Purdey's jaw dropped. "What? That's outrageous! You can't—"

"I can, Purdey, and I must," McKay said sadly, as his office door opened, and half a dozen Ministry security personnel filed in. "I'd prefer it if you came quietly. This whole sorry affair is unfortunate enough without leading the three of you through the halls in chains. And before you say anything, I should add that there is one, final, loose end that will be taken care of in your absence."

A side door opened, and a Ministry-sanctioned nurse stepped into the office. She was cradling a small, squirming bundle in her arms, and just visible over the swaddling was a shock of black hair...

Purdey dropped the photographs.

Gambit was sitting bolt upright in his chair, eyes fixed on the bundle. "Is that...?"

"Yes, Gambit, it's your daughter," McKay confirmed wearily, tightly gripping the handle of his cane.

"She's supposed to be at my mother's." Purdey's voice was sharp and shrill. "Why is she here?"

"She's going to be relocated. To someplace safe from reprisals from either side. You have my word she'll be taken care of."

Purdey was rising slowly, so slowly, from her seat, eyes riveted on her child. "Why can't she stay with my mother?"

"It's not safe," McKay tried to soothe. "We can't protect her there."

Purdey shook her head. "I don't understand. Where are you taking her?"

"As I said, someplace safe."

Purdey shook her head, as if she didn't believe him. "Gambit..." she said quietly, but with an underlying tension in her voice that couldn't be ignored.

"I know," Gambit replied, getting to his feet himself and leaning ominously across the desk. "I get the feeling you're using my daughter as leverage, McKay, and I don't like it."

Steed, too, was stony-faced. "Using a child for your own ends? That really is a bit much, even for you, Tommy."

Of the three, it was his old friend's eyes that McKay found the hardest to meet. Steed knew better than anyone where the line was between ruthless and downright exploitive, and McKay knew he hadn't so much danced it as leapt over it in a single bound. He would have just as soon left the baby with Purdey's mother—heaven knew it was going to be a task to find a safehouse equipped to care for a child—but the Minister was most insistent. No loose ends, no source of persuasion left untapped. He was convinced Steed, Purdey, and Gambit were up to something, and if taking the baby from her parents was the best way to make them talk, then that was damn well what needed to be done. But it was hard to explain that to the three people standing before him. Purdey's eyes were burning so brightly with hatred, he swore they could make incisions in his skull. "I'm sorry," he told her, knowing it would make little difference, but needing to say something. "I promise you I am. But there's nothing I can do."

"There is," Purdey snapped, nodding at the nurse. "Give her to me."

McKay shook his head. "Purdey, I can't—"

"Then I'll get her myself," Purdey cut in, turning and starting toward the other woman, who backed away instinctively as the blonde advanced, a dangerous look in her eyes. The nurse was narrowly saved from a fate worse than death—a mother's rage—when two of the security officers seized Purdey's arms and pulled her bodily away. "Let go of me!" Purdey screamed, struggling against restraining arms. "That's my daughter! You can't do this! You can't! Mike!"

Gambit's instincts had kicked in the second Purdey was grabbed, but he managed barely two steps toward her before he, too, was grabbed. Purdey turned eyes, now bright with panic, on him.

"Mike, they're taking her! They're taking her! Do something!" She struggled futilely as the men pulled her bodily away from her daughter, toward where they were holding Gambit and Steed. "Do something, for heaven's sake!"

"Purdey!" Gambit's voice cut through her panic like a knife, forced her to meet his eyes. His gaze was steady and remarkably composed considering the situation he was in. "I'll get her back. We'll get her back. We're going to find out who set us up, we're going to get out of this, and we'll get her back. I promise you. And you know I always keep my promises. Right?"

Purdey bit back tears she had no intention of shedding, and nodded. "Yes, of course. You're right." Gambit gave her an encouraging smile, then turned his attention to McKay.

"But in the meantime, if you touch her, if you harm so much as a hair on her head, I'll come for you and anyone else who had a hand in it, and you'll learn firsthand what it's actually like to have me working against you."

"You're in no position to make threats, Gambit," McKay said gravely.

"We'll see," Gambit replied darkly, before all three were dragged bodily from the room. McKay watched them go, waited until the office door was closed before dropping his face into his hands, and rubbing the temples vigourously. The nurse looked on, still cradling the mewling baby.

"Sir?" she asked softly. "Do you really think they're guilty?"

"It certainly looks that way," McKay replied, leaning heavily on his cane. His leg was hurting him more than it had in years.

"It does," the nurse agreed, looking at the pile of papers on the desk, then down at the child. "But one thing doesn't make sense. People can be bribed, they can be persuaded to do a lot of things. They can lie about who they are and what they want. But even if they've been lying, even if we have no idea who they really are, what we just saw, that seemed real to me. And if it was, then why would two parents who love their child that much do something like this, something that would put that child in danger if they were found out? Why would Steed, knowing how fond he is of the baby? It doesn't fit."

"No," McKay agreed with a sigh. "It doesn't. And I don't expect it to fit any time soon." He limped over to the nurse and peered into the bundle. "But until we find an explanation proving otherwise, we'll need to find someplace safe to keep the child. And when you make the placement, make sure not to use the surname 'Gambit'. It's not a safe one in the trade."

The nurse bit her lip and nodded, looked back at the child in her arms. "Yes, sir."


	4. Always Left Behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own The New Avengers, nor the characters of John Steed, Mike Gambit, Purdey, and Thomas McKay. They belong to The Avengers (Film and TV) Enterprises. This story is written for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> Author's Note: Not much to say about this one, except that it was a Steedcentric piece I'd always wanted to do. In spite of his cheery demeanour and boundless confidence, there's something inherently sad about his character, and the losses he endures, in one form or another, throughout the course of both series. No matter how many times it happens, and how professional he is about it, there's always the sense that he's not quite as unaffected as he makes out. This is probably the saddest one of the batch, so fair warning on that front.
> 
>  
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"Steed." The voice reached him through layer after layer of all-encompassing fog. It was a woman's voice, and a familiar one, though his equally-foggy brain was having difficulty placing it. He thought it must be Purdey's. Purdey was the only woman he could remember being there, running ahead of him and Gambit, when the roof caved in, and the rocks came down; right before the darkness took him, and the fog rolled in. It would make sense for it to be Purdey. She would insist on being allowed to sit at his bedside. He knew he must have a bedside. He'd regained consciousness in hospitals, makeshift and otherwise, so many times in his life that his brain had learned to pick out the signs. And now, as the fog lifted, he became consciously aware of them for the first time: the tell-tale beep of the heart monitor, the hiss of an oxygen mask, the hushed murmurings of doctors and nurses, the smell of antiseptic. And over it all, calling him back to the land of the living, was the voice again.

"Steed."

The word was soft and insistent, but also...sad. Steed frowned in his drug- or injury-induced sleep. Why was Purdey sad? Was she worried about him? Was he going to be all right? He felt all right, but that could be the drugs talking. Maybe she was hurt. That might explain it. It was more than likely given what they'd just survived. It could explain why she didn't sound quite like herself. But even leaving that aside, there was still something about her voice that niggled at the back of Steed's mind, something that didn't add up, something he'd have to open his eyes to figure out.

He opened them.

The world came back slowly. His eyes rebelled against the brightness of the fluorescents, and even when he blinked a few times, everything started out as a one big blur. His eyes flicked around, and the big blur started to resolve itself into smaller, separate blurs. He sought out the source of the voice, the woman at his bedside. She, too, was a blur, and Steed squinted at her to try and see her face. The first thing he noticed was the dark blur above it. A dark blur meant dark hair, and dark hair meant she wasn't Purdey. Steed blinked again and strained his eyes. If she wasn't Purdey, but he knew her voice, who was she? And why was she here? In his vulnerable position, having someone he couldn't identify by his bedside was a potentially lethal situation. Not everyone who sounded familiar was a friend. He redoubled his efforts to see clearly, and wished his head would quit swimming. Eventually it did, and the face below the dark hair gradually resolved into a set of features. Steed sighed internally with relief. They weren't Purdey's features, but they weren't an enemy's, either—not by any stretch of the imagination. The woman met his eyes, smiled at the sight of him awake and alert.

"Hello, Steed," she greeted softly.

"Miss King," Steed murmured, and tried to smile back, but confusion made the expression more half-hearted than he would have liked. "This is an unexpected surprise."

Tara King's smile turned rueful. "I'd like to say the same, but I've seen you in medical wards too many times for it to be true. You've had a very narrow escape, Steed. You were very lucky, as usual."

"I must have been," Steed agreed, looking down at his body in the hospital bed. One of his legs was in a cast, and he could feel the tell-tale wrappings around his waist that signified at least one broken rib. "Though not lucky enough to escape unscathed, I see."

"No," Tara agreed, and there was a strange, strained note to her voice. "No, but nothing vital was hit. No internal injuries. It's a miracle."

"I'll be the judge of that," Steed replied, shifting his arms and finding that they were relatively undamaged.

"I'm sure you'll be on your feet in no time," Tara predicted, but her cheerful smile looked forced, and didn't reach her eyes. Steed noticed and levelled his gaze at her. There was something wrong here, and he wanted to know what it was.

"Miss King, as lovely as it is to see you again after so long, I hope you'll understand when I ask: why are you here?"

Tara's smile wavered but didn't fade. "They thought someone ought to be here when you woke up. Someone with Ministry clearance, of course."

Steed nodded. "While that does make a great deal of sense," he said slowly, "I think you'll find that I already have two colleagues with the same level of clearance who would be more than capable of filling that role. Unless, of course, they're in the same state as I am after our ordeal. Is that right?"

Tara finally dropped the smile, reached out to take his hand. "Steed, you need to rest..."

"So I've gathered, and I'll do that just as soon as I've found out what's happened to Purdey and Gambit. You do know about Purdey and Gambit?"

Tara nodded, and this time tears were forming in her eyes. "Yes."

"Then take me to them." Steed was already struggling upright, sending an alarm screeching as monitors disconnected.

Tara put a hand on his chest to restrain him. "Steed, you've survived a terrible cave-in. You have a broken leg, four broken ribs, and a lump on your head. You need to rest, to let yourself heal."

"And I will. But first I need to know. What aren't you telling me, Tara? Where are they?"

Tara's face showed her resignation. She sighed and slumped back into her chair, rubbed her temples. "I'll get you a wheelchair," was all she said.

 

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The morgue was cold, and Tara shivered in spite of her navy turtleneck. Adding to her discomfort was her position. Steed was standing on his own, thanks to a pair of crutches, but she had to be nearby just in case he tipped over, and that meant staying for the viewing. She'd seen dozens of dead bodies in her time, but these were the worst, somehow, even though they were far from the most gruesome. She'd heard about her successors at Steed's side, naturally. The man was such a legend that anything and everything to do with him filtered through the whole of British intelligence at some point, and when people knew you were the last partner in crimefighting, they were all the more eager to tell you about the new ones. So she'd heard about Purdey and Gambit. Heard that there were two of them, instead of the standard one colleague Steed had taken on for years. Heard that they were the best, though they'd have to be, because Steed didn't take anyone else. Heard that Purdey was very beautiful, and about Gambit's dark good looks. She'd never seen a photo so she could decide for herself, and she still couldn't, even now. Laid out on the slabs, faces ghostly pale where they weren't mottled with bruising, they looked more like masks than the visages of the two vibrant, talented people they had been just 48 hours before. People with their careers and lives ahead of them. People the same age as her.

A horrible knot formed in Tara's stomach. It could have been her lying there, oh so easily, and yet, in all her years with Steed, she'd somehow never quite believed it was possible. There was something about working with Steed, with a living legend possessed of all the tricks, and training, and experience accumulated through a long and storied career, that made you feel invincible, and when he pulled you along on his adventures, there was the feeling that if you found yourself in a situation you couldn't get out of, he'd be there. It helped to know that he had a track record, that every single one of his previous partners had gone on to live lives post-Steed. Tara herself had actually met her predecessor in the flesh, so there was no reason to think she would be the first casualty. But even Steed's luck had to run out someday. It was Purdey and Gambit's misfortune to be there when it did.

"Did they die in the cave-in?" Steed's words shook Tara from her thoughts, but he had addressed to them to Dr. James Kendrick, the Ministry's current head of the medical department. Tara recalled his appointment not long before she left Steed, but didn't know much about the silver-haired physician beyond his no-nonsense approach, and excellent record. He sighed sadly, and shook his head at Steed.

"No, no, all three of you were alive when they dug you out. Purdey died in transit. Too many internal injuries. Gambit..." He paused, and took a shaky breath, and Tara realised that the doctor was not unaffected by the latest Ministry casualties. "Gambit made it here. He'd lost a lot of blood, and he wasn't lucid, but he did come around long enough to ask if you and Purdey were all right. I knew she was gone, and we weren't too certain about you, either, and I know he saw that in my eyes. I lost him on the operating table." He passed a hand over his eyes. "I'm so sorry, John. I tried. Heaven knows I tried. There were too many injuries for either of them to have a chance. All that rubble tumbling down. The only reason you're here is because you were in a doorway when the bomb went off. It gave you a little bit of shelter, at least."

Steed nodded, eyes riveted on the bodies. "I know you did everything you could, Kendrick. I don't blame you. It's the nature of the job. They knew the risks."

That doesn't make it better at all, though, does it? he added mentally, wondering where he was going to go from here. He'd lost so many friends to the business, especially recently, but never a partner. Not once. Oh, there had been close calls, but those were unavoidable. The closest he'd ever been to being here, now, was the day they'd called him in the morning after the fire in the harbour, to identify the corpse they'd found on the boat, burnt beyond recognition. He remembered looking at the shrouded silhouette, and thinking for one brief, horrible moment that it was Cathy Gale's. Cathy herself had appeared, unscathed, shortly after, but the fear he had felt haunted him long after. And now here he was again. Purdey and Gambit's faces were relatively unscathed, but he could tell from the shape of the shrouds that their bodies were broken beneath the sheets. There would be no last-minute salvation this time.

He knew he was supposed to be a professional, that he was expected to pick up and carry on, because while lives ended, the threats never did, and there were always more agents to take up the cause where they came from. That was the impartial view, the callous view, but Steed had taken it more times than he could count in the course of his career. If he was honest with himself, it was the cool, calculating part of his brain that had led him to put Purdey and Gambit together in the first place. He'd seen them as two essential pieces of the team he needed to run assignments, the team that would live on as a partnership long after he was gone, by accident or design—his legacy. But as was the way of the world of espionage, people got under your skin, even when the walls were up, even when they'd been chosen with detached professionalism, and gently manipulated to achieve a personal goal. And so, unsurprisingly, Purdey and Gambit had progressed from project, to colleagues, to friends, and looking at them lying here, cold and pale, he found 'friends' was the only way he could think of them.

And the way he would miss them. Because they would be missed, painfully so at this stage of his life, when he was supposed to be the one to leave them behind, not the other way around. And so he would miss them. Miss Gambit's bad jokes, and Purdey's summer dresses. Miss long, leisurely dinners on evenings off, when they could stay out to the wee hours with no reason to rise early the next morning. Miss the equally long nightcaps with Gambit that had been unofficial confessionals, each man unburdening himself to the other when the weight of the lives they had chosen became too heavy, and the drink had flowed just a touch too liberally. Miss the comfortable companionship of Purdey reading the paper on his couch. Miss cricket games in the back garden, and horse races in the grounds. Miss Purdey and Gambit's incessant bickering, and the moments when they were quiet, and he caught them holding entire conversations without saying a word; miss the satisfaction it gave him. But he'd miss the laughter most of all. He always did. It was the hardest thing to replace, on a list of irreplaceable things a mile long. These two people were now two new entries to that list, and he was alone again. Except...

"Tara," he said hoarsely, throat gone dry in the interim, and he felt her stir beside him, lost in a world of her own.

"Yes?" she acknowledged quietly, her voice a reverential hush that belonged at a wake, but in a strange way that was exactly what this was.

"I'll need to take some time, to recover, and...put things in order." He turned his head and met her green eyes with his own, hoping she'd understand. "I'd be eternally grateful if you'd stay, until it was all over."

Tara smiled sadly. She'd expected him to ask, and she had her answer ready. "Of course I'll stay," she murmured, and took his hand in hers, gave it a squeeze, and felt him squeeze back. Picking up the pieces of John Steed was a task she was intimately familiar with, one she had embarked on the day Emma Peel had swirled a finger in an anti-clockwise motion. "As long as you need."

"It may be a very long time," Steed warned, shifting on his crutches.

"I expect it will be," Tara agreed, putting a hand under his arm to steady him. "Come on, let's get you back to bed."


	5. Pushed to the Limit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own The New Avengers, nor the characters of John Steed, Mike Gambit, Purdey, and Thomas McKay. They belong to The Avengers (Film and TV) Enterprises. This story is written for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> Author's Note: Last of the "Didn'ts", and I'm afraid it's not much more cheerful than the last. Well, I did warn you. The solitary "Did" will appear next, though, and I can promise that it'll wrap things up on a much lighter note. This one came from wondering what would happen if Gambit finally got tired of the game and gave up pursuing Purdey. How long could she really expect him to hang around with only the odd bit of encouragement...?
> 
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Purdey watched Gambit stand at the altar, his bride's hands in his. It was like a dream, really—some sort of surreal unreality that her mind might have conjured up after a particular raucous night out. But no, this was real. The church was real. The sun shining through the stained glass was real, as were the colourful patterns they spilled over her blue dress. And, most important of all, the bride was real. Tall, slim, chestnut-haired. She had a name, too. Helen. It sounded wrong to Purdey's ears. Helen. Helen Gambit. Mrs. Helen Gambit. Not the right ring to it. And anyway, Gambit didn't suit a Helen. Then again, she'd never exactly sat down and worked out what he would suit. She never thought there'd be any need. Mike Gambit, one of the Ministry's most eligible, definitely one of its most swinging, bachelors, getting married of all things. If she'd asked most of the Ministry's staff a year ago if they thought it was possible, they'd have laughed in her face. No one was laughing now.

Beside her, Steed took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. She turned and gave him a wane smile, then returned her attention to the altar. Helen was nice enough, she supposed. Bright, pretty, good sense of humour. Gambit had met her at a gallery just over a year ago, asking questions in relation to an assignment. Their courtship progressed swiftly and quietly. Gambit had only introduced her to Purdey and Steed three months ago, and only then because they'd run into each other at a restaurant. The encounter was awkward and tense, for everyone but Helen, who didn't seem to know anything of Purdey and Gambit's history. All that came across was that she adored Gambit, to the point that it was difficult to be in the same room as the pair of them. She called him 'Michael,' even though Purdey knew for a fact that he hated it, and that the only people who were usually permitted to do so were his immediate family, but somehow Helen got away with it. She didn't regard Purdey as a threat at all, which was particularly galling. In fact, she was indecently friendly to her. She even asked Purdey to be a bridesmaid, but she'd turned it down as politely as she could without causing offence. She knew if she was any less tactful it would get back to Gambit, and she knew, somehow, that his reaction was not something she wanted to see in her lifetime. Mike Gambit was one of the most even-tempered men she knew, but he had his limits, and heaven knew she'd pushed him right to the very brink of them.

She couldn't blame him, not really. She'd broken his heart so many times that he'd have to have been a masochist to keep coming back indefinitely. She'd almost made a game out of seeing how intimate they could become while still leaving room to back out again. One night she'd taken it too far. It was then that she saw something click behind his eyes as she hit the reset button. After that things were never quite the same again. He'd drifted away, slowly but surely, so subtlely that the ring was practically on Helen's finger before she realised what had happened. And by then it was too late.

What made it worse was that he was giving up the Ministry for her. Helen wanted a normal life, and a normal husband to go with it, one who would stay in one piece long enough to raise a family. Purdey would have bet everything she owned that Mike Gambit would rather die than settle quietly into an action-free life of domesticity, but the casual way he'd broken the news to her and Steed implied that he'd barely put up a fight. Maybe it was what he'd always wanted, really, deep down. But part of Purdey was vain enough to think that his decision was, at least a little, because of her. McKay certainly thought so, if his gruff manner toward her was any indication. The rumour mill had it that he was miffed to be losing a valuable agent, with heaven only knew how many resources poured into him, to something as inconsequential as fraternising. Gambit was one of the up-and-comers, one of the boys who was meant to make up the next generation. And now he was gone, and there was nothing anyone could do, least of all Purdey. Even if she wished there was.

As if reading her thoughts, Gambit's eyes left Helen's, briefly, to flick her way-a warning glance to not interfere, she knew. All those times over the years she'd pulled him away from other women, then turned around and pushed him away in the same motion, just because she couldn't work out what she wanted from him—she could write a book. Now he was asking her to put her own wants aside, and just let him be. Finally.

For once, Purdey held her peace.


	6. The Morning After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own The New Avengers, nor the characters of John Steed, Mike Gambit, Purdey, and Thomas McKay. They belong to The Avengers (Film and TV) Enterprises. This story is written for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> Author's Note: And finally, to wrap the whole little saga up, the "did" part of the series. After the various, not always cheery, happenings of the last five bits, I thought I'd round things off with something light-hearted. If you've been reading along, I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did writing it. And so, without further ado...
> 
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Dawn broke over the serenity of the English countryside. A tranquil vista of rolling green hills and sheep-dotted pastures was broken, surprisingly, by a column of grey smoke billowing up into the clear, blue heavens, its source what was no doubt once a beautiful old family estate, reduced just over an hour ago to a crumbling ruin. About a mile or so away, three figures tramped along, mounting each hill with a slow, steady pace. A closer look would reveal that they consisted of two men and a woman, she slightly ahead in what had probably once been a very expensive evening dress, but was now stained and frayed beyond repair, and the men in suits, also distressed, but somehow less the worse for wear. As they walked, a voice rang shrilly over the landscape, shattering the peace and serenity.

"I can't believe we were attacked by the only diabolical mastermind who lives in a place with no other buildings in a five-mile radius," she ranted, trudging unevenly over the landscape.

"It wouldn't have proved a problem if the phone lines hadn't gone out in the explosion," one of the men, the older one, pointed out mildly.

"And whose idea was that?" the woman challenged.

"Yours," the other man asserted.

The woman let out an indignant gasp and whirled round. "It was no such thing! I seem to remember you lit the fuse, Mike Gambit."

The younger one—Gambit-shrugged. "Yes, but you were the one who decided an explosion was the distraction we needed, Purdey."

"It was a desperate situation. They were after us. We would have been caught," Purdey justified.

"It doesn't matter," the other man—Steed—cut in, before Gambit could retort, "who thought or did what at this point. What does matter is finding a way to contact McKay, and having him send someone out to pick up that batch of enemy agents we left boxed up."

Gambit swept his arm grandly over the rolling countryside laid out before them. "My kingdom for a pay phone."

Purdey snorted, turning away again to resume her journey. "I've seen your 'kingdom.' I'd be very surprised if someone was mad enough to move heaven and earth for a terrible pseudo-Greek statue and a pile of shag carpet."

"Now Purdey, that's not very charitable," Gambit rebuked unconcernedly. "You left out my very valuable collection of etchings."

"Etchings?" Purdey exclaimed. "Mike Gambit, if you're serious, you really are the most terrible cliché of a bachelor who ever walked the planet." But when she wheeled around to look at him, he was grinning broad enough to be seen from Dover, and she cursed internally at walking into his bad joke without a second thought. She shook her head in annoyed disbelief as Gambit's laughter reached her ears. "Etchings," she muttered. "Honestly, why I listen to a word you say..."

"Because of my sparkling wit," Gambit offered.

"Try again," came the retort.

"Because no one else'll listen to what comes out of that mad brain of yours," Gambit tried again, earning himself an over-the-shoulder glare.

"I'll keep my thoughts to myself from now on," Purdey huffed, picking her way around a rather deep rabbit hole, and debating whether to warn Gambit, or let him fall in of his own volition. "I wish you'd done the same before you came out with 'etchings.' No one has etchings anymore."

"I'll bet Steed does," Gambit said mischievously, glancing sideways at the senior agent's poker face.

"I refuse to answer," Steed told him, quite seriously.

Gambit's face split into a grin. "On the grounds that it's incriminating?"

"Because a gentleman has certain confidences he simply must keep," Steed corrected, then allowed himself a small smile. "Though it may interest you to know that my Auntie Penelope was an avid collector of all sorts of art, much of which she passed on to me..."

Gambit's grin broadened. "Some families have all the luck."

Purdey wheeled around angrily. "Am I the only one concerned with finding a way to get us home?" she demanded. "How on earth can you two be so damned cheerful?"

Gambit produced a flask from inside his jacket, and waggled it with a touch too much enthusiasm. "Liquid cheerfulness, Purdey-girl. Been getting weary travellers over the bumps in the road for hundreds of years."

Purdey's jaw dropped. "You're drunk?"

Gambit frowned, as though insulted. "Not drunk," he clarified. "Just pleasantly tipsy. Don't look at me like that. Steed's the one with the bottle of Scotch."

Purdey's eyes swivelled around to fix on the senior agent, who guiltily produced a bottle from the pocket of his topcoat. "I'm sorry, Purdey, but it was a very long night, and it promises to be an equally long morning. I needed something to cut the chill."

"We would have offered you some," Gambit added, "but you struck out ahead right from the off, and didn't seem to need it."

"Need? Need? What I need are two sober colleagues!"

Gambit looked around vaguely, as though expecting to see someone else, but found no one. "Sorry, they're not here. Will we do?"

Purdey ground her teeth.

"What are you in such a mood about?" Gambit inquired, holding out the flask. "Here, you can have some of mine."

"I'm in a mood because we're stuck out here, in the middle of a field, miles from civilisation, with a house full of slightly charred and bound enemy agents behind us, and no way to call for transport, or a clean-up crew. On top of it all, I've broken my heel, I'm covered with mud, and my dress is ruined. I was promised an evening off, and instead I was dragged from the disco to the countryside, where I was bound, gagged, threatened, freed, forced to fight off half a dozen armed guards, jumped off a balcony, drove a car through the front door, was nearly blown up, and to cap it all off, I've been awake for nearly 40 hours." She turned around and stalked off, muttered, "That was, without a doubt, the worst date ever in the history of human interaction."

Gambit's ears pricked up. "What was that?"

"You heard me."

"Date?" Gambit was running now, moving to catch up with her. "That was a date?"

"That was an evening of hell, Mike Gambit."

"But before that. That was a date? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Shut up, Gambit."

"Hang on, you're the one who said it, not me. I'm just trying to get the facts straight."

"I'll straighten something else if you're not careful."

Observing from a safe distance, Steed smiled and took another sip of Scotch, turning his eyes up to the sky. It looked like it was going to be a beautiful day.


End file.
